The Imperial Palace was many things: beautiful, fortified, and absolutely exhausting.
Duchess Serathine D'Argente had endured four hours of painfully slow council meetings that afternoon—most of them concerning trade adjustments and minor disputes between minor houses who didn't understand the difference between territorial management and aristocratic whining. She was not impressed.
She'd handled grain logistics in Baye during an ether drought. She had hosted foreign dignitaries who couldn't pronounce her title but wanted to marry her ward. She had once brokered peace between a coastal duke and a factory union leader before breakfast.
But this?
This was tedious.
Still, she remained poised, gloved fingers resting on the edge of the polished table, every movement calculated into grace. She did not sigh. She did not frown. She simply blinked, once, when the third delegate used the phrase "as is traditional in our house."
